


put your money where your mouth is

by Ladoga



Category: Original Work
Genre: (light) SciFi, F/M, Female Rapist, Gags, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Second Person, Restraints, Secret Organizations, Self-Sacrifice, author has neither research nor experience, gag with dildo, porn with hardly a plot in sight, strapon gag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 15:49:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14216523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladoga/pseuds/Ladoga
Summary: Prompts:"i want fic of someone tying someone down to the floor or something and having them wear one of those ridiculous dildo gags and fucking their face""let's say the person enduring the thing should have decided to get themself into a situation where they expected this on purpose, like because they're secretly recording the rape as evidence to finally bring a serial rapist to justice, but in the middle of it they don't have a way out if they want to back out, they're at the rapist's mercy" (with response 'I should be able to do that as long as they don't in fact want to back out').





	put your money where your mouth is

McKayla hadn’t really wanted you going on this one.

“You’ve seen the scans; house is shielded to hell and back. We’re not getting a monitor in and you’re not getting an alert out.”

“I’ve seen the scans and I know.” You are, in fact, looking at said scans right now, diagrams of walls coming up in different colors on the holopad. 

“So if you go in and it goes wrong and you want to get out -”   


“Then I can’t get out. And if I don’t go in then she picks up someone  _ else _ tonight, and  _ they _ can’t get out. And  _ they _ won’t have signed up for it.”

“And if she goes for murder-as-finale this time?”

“She is not going to-” you catch her expression. “Based on escalation analysis, it is  _ highly unlikely _ -” (and better you than…). “And this wasn’t exactly ever going to be a risk free job.”

McKayla sighs. “Well, we’re glad to have you on it, Sergeant. And we do hope to keep having you. Alive.”

You page on through scans to the rendezvous section. “Oh yeah, dying on video in some basement would definitely be havoc on my job prospects. I hear they don’t even let you commute.”

 

“Another drink, sir?” You pretend distraction as you smile at the waiter.

“Not right now, I think.”

“Oh, but the lady at the bar insists. With her compliments.” You give him more overt attention now, smile wider, turn obviously to look over at the bar.

“Well. In that case, I’d be all sorts of flattered.”

 

The house in real life is even nicer than on the scans. Exotic wood on the door, stained glass windows. Slight buzz walking through marking off some of the shielding. The works. The doctor is holding your hand, lets go of it when you’re through the door. (Training means you don’t have to imagine that you can hear the lock as it seals).

“Come in, come in! Sit down! I just had this room redone - adaptive fibers in all the furniture. And the bar’s just  _ lovely _ but you can’t really compare to a touch of home you know…” She’s busied herself at her own bar as she talks, brings you a crystal glass a moment later. “Here, try this one first, you’ll see what I mean.” 

The implant running the recording does chemical analysis as well, not that you need it. And there’s more than one unit on finding excuses, on deflecting, polite and charming no’s that don’t quite put a stop to proceedings in general. But a technique isn’t a guarantee, and ‘drugged’ gets you all sorts of points from the courts if you play it right.

You smile at her again, let yourself relax into the couch and raise the glass. “Cheers.”

 

It’s neither slow nor fast. You don’t fall over right there, but nor does the effect hide itself from you for very long. Muscles and mind go together, the warm hazy feeling and the not-quite-moving-how-you-meant, mild before it starts building. Before she’s talking just as brightly but you can’t quite focus on her anymore, but even the most insistent order won’t get your limbs to move under your command. She’s holding your hand again, and you can feel her finger over your pulse. Her voice seems like it echoes in the room. “- see what I mean -”.

 

You weren’t sure how she was planning on moving you, but in fact she doesn’t at all. Snaps the electrocuffs around your wrists, ankles, and then they’re dragging you down, stretching you out on her polished-pattern floor. You can see the lights blink on them as she comes over. “Now,” she says, and you half-think you must have missed something again when under the cuff something bites your wrist and the room goes black.

 

When you wake, your head is perfectly clear again. You can wiggle your fingers just fine, turn your head. Could move your arms and get up and all that except the electrocuffs are still there, holding you against the floor. When you do turn your head you can see her in a pulled-up chair, watching either the cuffs or you. There’s something filling your mouth, which is nice, because the verbal part of pretending is kind of annoying. The physical part, conversely, is pretty easy. You take a moment to civilian-would-need-to-recover-senses, and then you struggle, pull against the cuffs, try to lift your hands off the floor, lift your body off the floor, make whatever sounds you can manage just from your throat. 

The doctor stands from the chair, and her smile is entirely different, this time. “Welcome to the party. I’m afraid it simply had to be a surprise.”

You don’t have to pretend to tense as she comes over. You took the job, you know what it is; ‘record rapists in action so said action can be put a stop to’ sounds all sorts of nice, but ‘rapists in action’ is the sort of thing that takes two. That doesn’t mean you have to find it any kind of fun. You don’t need to pretend to flinch when she reaches into her pocket, either. You’re still dressed, which is kind of a bad sign. Watching their prey wake up naked is the kind of bit that can be all sorts of gratifying, to this type. If she’s not doing that, chances are she’s getting fancy with them, and most people who get fancy with clothes and knives keep the knife out for a while, after that. 

It is, in reality, not a knife. Looks like an insertable, black and with the sculptor attempt at veins and all that. Not even that large. No flared base, but well - you have doctors for that kind of thing, and if she wants to lose access to an orifice early in the action that’s going to be her problem. But she doesn’t start pulling your pants down, or even tearing them open. Sits down by your head, does something you can’t see with the gag. Picks up the insertable from her lap and  - oh. You start struggling again when she starts attaching it on, because that seems about good timing. She doesn’t pay you much mind, nudges at it where it’s now sticking up from your face. Checking security, you presume. (It is, as far as you can tell from your current position, secure.)

Now she does your clothes. Still no knife; another high tech piece, slicing through fabric as it rolls over you before she puts it away again, drags the remains out from between you and the floor. (The floor is cold, you notice. You might have thought your body heat would have warmed it by now…).

Her own clothes she doesn’t seem to plan to bother with. She steps over to your head again, and then steps over it, and there’s enough light that you get a pretty good view into her not really needing to. And then she sinks down onto you and her skirt spreads across your head and to the floor and you don’t get a view anymore at all.

This one, you can note as she starts to move, as her thighs flex on either side of your head, as you can feel hands on your naked skin below the brush of her skirt, you haven’t actually done before. Not exactly like the kind of oral rape you might have expected more - her ass settles and grinds against your face, her thighs clench and release, the skirt locks in heat and scent. But the taste in your mouth is rubber, your tongue held down, fluids stain your cheeks but don’t have entrance further in. 

(Not like the other kind either - your mouth is full, her movement moves the plug inside your mouth. But it’s firm, and not warm, doesn’t pull in and out, safe to bite down on like it’s safe to clench your fists, to tense again as she strokes your chest, runs fingernails up your arms.)

“There now.” Your hearing’s a bit muffled, but you’re pretty sure you hear her. About as sure you hear the signal she sends out; don’t know what’s going to be receiving it until the plug is suddenly moving differently in your mouth and -

_ Now _ it’s more kind of like the other kind. By whatever technological trick programmed in (maybe she got it with the adaptive fibers…) the plug expands, forces your mouth slightly wider but mostly forces itself down into you. Not to your throat - that’s nice, you have to admit you’re kind of a fan of breathing - but enough that you’re half-gagging, that the next motion as she rocks on you makes it more than half.

Odd as it kind of is to you -  _ you go to all this trouble, and then _ \- some people get their raping over pretty quickly. The doctor, by all evidence, is not that kind. You think you can feel it when she orgasms, different pattern in her muscles and hands clenching into your arms and more fluid smearing across your face (you put some effort into trying not to inhale it), but she doesn’t  _ stop _ then. Readjusts herself, and brushes hands over your stomach, and.

Your jaw starts to ache. Fluids where they’re not being renewed dry sticky and itch; the plug shifts again and the heat feels choking and you remind yourself that no you’re not going to suffocate, that’s quite ridiculous, you just - . Without waiting for you to feign struggle again your body is starting to shiver, from cold or contrast or touch or just some kind of overload, you’re not entirely sure. She moves, she shifts, and biting too hard into the plug is a bad habit you shouldn’t let yourself - .

When she stands up, you find yourself gasping for air (as you can, with your mouth still full), blinking your eyes at the sudden light. (There are tears, from your eyes, you notice. You’re not very sure when that happened…). She’s smiling again, looking down at you (or else you can  _ see _ her smiling again). 

“Good evening, I think.

Good night!” A signal, and a prick, and black again. 

 

When you wake up you are unbound. Outside, and unbound, and your clothes returned, though the cutting means they’re not doing you the most possible good on the relevant front. It’s night, empty and cold, the ground under you half grass and half concrete with some gravel. Moving doesn’t hurt very much (always nice, that. Pretty much just the tied down-and-struggling-and-drug-aftereffects, there.) You’re slightly dizzy - also mostly drugs, probably - but not too much to sit up, brace one hand against the ground while you check the implant. 

_ Green lights _ , you think, when it signals. Recording done. Contact reestablished; beacon sent. You curl slightly on the grass, sitting. Have training enough not to need to think to keep from touching the clothes more than needed, touching your face.  _ Evidence _ . You swallow, and end up with a brief coughing fit, and swallow again.

You wait for McKayla.


End file.
